Went for a walk on the beach today. There was a very cold wind. The beach grass had been bleached out by all the winter weather. It was this crazy vibrant yellow colour like the straw spun into gold in Rumpelstiltskin. I had Astrid in the carrier with my coat around her. We went back on a path through the woods. We were breaking the ice propped up along the grass of the path as we went along, which was very satisfying.
Now it’s later, Astrid and I are at home. I stood with her in the carrier in front of the window for a long time, listening to music and watching the clouds turn from bright pink to dusty grey-violet. Watching the waves rolling in endlessly. It stays light outside quite late these days. It’s something I’m still not used to in February after all those years of Swedish winters. It’s wonderful but today it made me feel uneasy. It made me feel the time to hibernate is over and the time for action is here. It made me feel I can’t hide from things: what work I have to do, what I should be and become. Uneasiness that I feel the need for action but don’t yet know what that action is. That the time is here but I don’t know time for what.
Do I feel like change is coming? Isn’t change always coming? There’s no hiding from change, but sometimes I don’t want it. I want the stillness and safety of now. This pocket of time, with my baby close to me, and the red amaryllis blooming on the windowsill. It’s in full bloom; it doesn’t have a hint of decay yet. No sign of its time being past. Its time is simply now, and it is perfect now. I love this now: watching the wind in the trees outside, hearing the woodstove crackle, hearing Astrid cooing, watching the gentle lamplight falling against the wall.
2008-02-20
2008-02-06
Tucked In
It's snowing. It's snowing the kind of snow where it looks like there's a snow machine dropping fake snow from the sky. Pretty, fluffy, seperate flakes, falling quickly with no wind. Straight down.
Lots of time has gone by. There's been all that happens with each month and with each season. Swimming in the lake in August, arms moving through the water. Fireflies blinking on and off all over the hill behind the house. (Watching them knowing you're here in order to see them) Quick cold dunks in the ocean and the fresh start it always brought.
And when did summer turn to Fall? With its leaves flying the meaning of extravagance. With its crisp fresh breath. Was it when the darker evening wrapped itself closer?
Unexpected animals slipped into the stories of our days. The fox, the rabbits, the pheasants with their comic cowardly squacks and startled departures. Two days spent watching a new fawn learn to walk, its mother nervous and nearby. Its unsure legs and stubborn continuing.
November brought starkness and pared down the landscape to red berries clear and simple alongside cold walks. All the chilly elegance of frosts on windows.
December's bustle arrived made of wrapping paper, reds and greens, chocolate, ribbons, and a tall, surreal, red amaryllis. Snow sneaking back into the everyday until it belonged again on ledges and branches. Until we expected it for our footprints down the path from house to car.
Of course there's been something different amidst the rest this year. Nestled into the seasons and days was our baby growing: inside, snug, mysterious, shifting and kicking and listening.
Slowly I want to think over her arrival. Slowly I'll file away the details of her arrival.
It began like that though: tucked into seasons changing ever so slightly every day.
Lots of time has gone by. There's been all that happens with each month and with each season. Swimming in the lake in August, arms moving through the water. Fireflies blinking on and off all over the hill behind the house. (Watching them knowing you're here in order to see them) Quick cold dunks in the ocean and the fresh start it always brought.
And when did summer turn to Fall? With its leaves flying the meaning of extravagance. With its crisp fresh breath. Was it when the darker evening wrapped itself closer?
Unexpected animals slipped into the stories of our days. The fox, the rabbits, the pheasants with their comic cowardly squacks and startled departures. Two days spent watching a new fawn learn to walk, its mother nervous and nearby. Its unsure legs and stubborn continuing.
November brought starkness and pared down the landscape to red berries clear and simple alongside cold walks. All the chilly elegance of frosts on windows.
December's bustle arrived made of wrapping paper, reds and greens, chocolate, ribbons, and a tall, surreal, red amaryllis. Snow sneaking back into the everyday until it belonged again on ledges and branches. Until we expected it for our footprints down the path from house to car.
Of course there's been something different amidst the rest this year. Nestled into the seasons and days was our baby growing: inside, snug, mysterious, shifting and kicking and listening.
Slowly I want to think over her arrival. Slowly I'll file away the details of her arrival.
It began like that though: tucked into seasons changing ever so slightly every day.
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